The Outcast Mother.

I’ve seen this dell in July’s shine, As lovely as an angel’s dream; Above—Heaven’s depth of blue divine, Around—the evening’s golden beam. I’ve seen the purple heather-bell Look out by many a storm-worn stone; And, oh! I’ve known such music swell,— Such wild notes wake these passes lone— So soft, yet so intensely felt; So low, yet so distinctly heard; My breath would pause, my eyes would melt, And tears would dew the green heath-sward. I’d linger here a summer day, Nor care how fast the hours flew by; Nor mark the sun’s departing ray Smile sadly from the dark’ning sky. Then, then, I might have laid me down, And dreamed my sleep would gentle be; I might have left thee, darling one, And thought thy God was guarding thee! But now there is no wand’ring glow, No gleam to say that God is nigh; And coldly spreads the couch of snow, And harshly sounds thy lullaby. Forests of heather, dark and long, Wave their brown branching arms above; And they must soothe thee with their song, And they must shield my child of love. Alas! the flakes are heavily falling, They cover fast each guardian crest; And chilly white their shroud is palling Thy frozen limbs and freezing breast. Wakes up the storm more madly wild, The mountain drifts are tossed on high; Farewell, unbless’d, unfriended child, I cannot bear to watch thee die! E. J. Brontë. Haworth, July 12th, 1839.